The Dead One That Came Back
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Sherlock comes back. Dead, unreal and traumatized. And now it is upon John to protect his best friend, colleague and lover. "Yeah, my friend Sherlock, the one I have told you about on countless occasions is…well he is back. But not really…" John's voice trailed away and a look of pain overtook his face.
1. Chapter 1

John was sitting outside the familiar office of his psychiatrist, twitchy from the lack of sleep, a mixture of irritation and worry on his face marking those brown eyes. For once, the steely face of the soldier seemed to be shaken, worry lines and proofs of sleepless nights stood on his face in proud mockery of something that once boasted of exquisiteness.

"Dr. Watson. Can't say that I'm glad to have you back," smiled his psychiatrist, a sad look creeping into her eyes.

"It's not for me, it's for…Sherlock. My best friend Sherlock…who was dead…" the door opened with a bang and Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective who had been dead for about 6 months, stood there wearing John's jumper and a look of fear in his eyes. "I woke up and you weren't there…I…thought you had left too," he was shaking from head to toe, the eyes lacked any semblance with the old Sherlock, they didn't dart from side to side, they didn't linger a second too long on everything, they didn't drink away every detail of the room and filed information in a superior storage device behind them. The eyes looked strangely vacant and washed against Watson's brown jumper and the man who stood in it was more dead than ever.

"Sherlock, what are you…how did you get here? I told you I was going to be back soon," Watson shot a look towards his psychiatrist whose mouth was slightly open. She got up and started walking towards Sherlock with a smile. What happened next was something John was here to tell his psychiatrist and which he needn't have done now, Sherlock made a small squeal of terror and quickly ran towards John, holding him tightly with shaking hands, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to drown something, hiding behind John and muttering something the psychiatrist couldn't hear.

"Yeah, my friend Sherlock, the one I have told you about on countless occasions is…well he is back. But not really…" John's voice trailed away and a look of pain overtook his face. His lip quivered from the strain of trying to keep his voice steady and yet, a tear slid down his cheek. He gently brushed it away and held Sherlock tighter, the latter still not letting go.

"It's a kind of shock he has received John. I can't say if it will take time to make it right or if he will fully recover ever. The whole trauma of the entire episode has left his brain reeling, he doesn't know what is real and what isn't. In the entire confusion, his brain has done what any person in such a situation will do – it has tried to forget the unsettling things and move on. It has consciously omitted the things it couldn't grasp, the things that were questioned and it has…reduced him to this." John was back with the psychiatrist, after Sherlock had been pacified and was sitting on a nearby chair, looking towards the reception desk with interest.

"What do you mean by 'if he will fully recover'? The damage couldn't be permanent, could it?" John desperately wanted to listen to her saying things-will-be-alright or don't-worry-he-will-be-fine but a shrug was all he received. He collected some medicines, mostly sleeping pills and tablets to calm Sherlock if he ever had any bad dreams. John thanked the psychiatrist wordlessly and motioned to Sherlock who got up quickly and linked his arm with John's.

"You mustn't leave the flat, Sherlock. It's still unsafe for you," John said when they were sitting in the cab comfortably and he was warming Sherlock's cold hands in his own.

"I thought…I thought you had left me…" Sherlock's voice trailed off, his eyes getting unfocussed again and a white chill creeping on those defined features.

"I will never leave you. _Never Ever_," John squeezed his hand gently and kissed his head, bringing the once brilliant detective back to reality again. Sherlock looked at him with solemn eyes open wide with fear and John felt a rush of protectiveness towards the man who needed him now more than anyone else in the world. He held him in his arms as the cab snaked in the streets of London and vowed in his head to hurt every single person who had made Sherlock…_this._


	2. Chapter 2

It had been exactly 4 months since Sherlock's death and Watson had barely moved back into 221B, unable to face it for so long; the prospect of living without Sherlock, that too in a place that reminded him of the detective in every way was a task he wasn't looking forward to. Still, he had to _move on _as he had been told by so many others. He was sitting on the armchair, flipping over shows and not really watching anything. He let his eyes wander to the window where Sherlock used to stand and play the piano, the armchair where he would slump down, the wall that still had the beaten smiley, the _air…_everything reeked of _Sherlock_.

Sherlock didn't use his old aftershave anymore. He wasn't prone to moody conversations with his violin or his skull, aimlessly playing around with the strings when he was bored as if his fingers didn't even recognize the wood they tapped. He talked more about everything he felt. He had already told John twice that he loved him. He ate his food on time, slept with John, snuggling in close and tucking them both in. _He smiled a lot _but he wasn't Sherlock. Things like these couldn't be explained in words. Sherlock would walk into the room, wearing an apron and smelling of pancakes on Sunday mornings and it would hit John how much he missed _his _Sherlock.

The one new thing he had picked up was fear. There were times when gunfire in a movie or images of snipers being chased would wound him up. John would turn around to get some popcorn and find Sherlock holding his head, remembering a light that once shone out of those brilliant blue eyes, going white as sheet, sweating profusely. He would see a flutter of hope in his heart, his ears hammering audibly but then it would pass. Sherlock would excuse himself and come out of his room hours later, disoriented and haggard. He would curl up next to John and keep his head on John's shoulder, wanting protection, _demanding_ protection.

This was their routine; routine because even though he felt bad, John brought a commando movie from the library every week and saw his friend break into a million pieces, feeling ashamed but hoping against hope that this was the last time he was doing it. The _last _time. The _last _fall.


	3. Chapter 3

John had gone out to get some groceries. Sherlock seemed to be happy when he was cooking, he would read the recipe books with concentration and try to get the ingredients right. He didn't sleep once and worked hard all night to perfect the recipe of a lemon cake. It was only during these times that John got a peek of the old Sherlock; the steely determination and the perseverance, it all reminded him of a time that was slowly moving away, a time that was forgetting itself in a hurry, a black hole of a genius.

Hence, John made sure that Sherlock had whatever ingredients he wanted; they would both wear aprons and be joined by Mrs. Hudson who had the most amazing recipes that seemed to excite Sherlock's curiosity to no end. Conversations flowed and laughter rang inside the walls of 221B and yet, the lemon cake tasted drab compared to the thing that was being missed. Once, Sherlock cracked a particularly funny joke on chemists and they laughed so hard that they cried. They cried so much that John had nothing left to cry anymore.

John was getting off the cab, huge bags of groceries in his hands, swearing as he dropped his change and had to put everything down to pick up the coins. He heard raised voices above. "Sherlock!" he thought immediately. He leaped over three stairs at once, trying to reach the door, screams of Mrs. Hudson echoed the hallway, she was shouting profanities. He opened the door and saw the huddled and sobbing form of Sherlock on the couch, his face hidden under his blue-black curls, apron still on. Anderson smirked in a corner while Donovan looked positively alarmed.

"What the fuck! Get away from him! Sherlock…" John pushed Donovan away and quickly touched Sherlock who winced at his touch. John directed his stare at Anderson who stepped back a little. He held him by the collar, spluttering in anger, "Why the fuck did you come here? What did you do to him? If you have laid one finger on him, I swear to God, Anderson, I will skin you alive!" Anderson looked scared at the look on John's face, he was trying to back as far off as he could.

"I…we did nothing! We just came here to check on him, that's all," he looked like he wanted to say something more but John cut him. "I told Lestrade expressly that he could call me to NSY for any interrogation. Sherlock was NOT to meet any of you, he is recovering. He is fucking ill, do you know what that means Anderson!" John was now running his hand over Sherlock's head, bending down and murmuring something in Sherlock's ear. Donovan and Anderson took the opportunity to say a quick sorry before Mrs. Hudson shoved them out of the room, giving John a nod before she left.

"Sherlock…" John called softly, stroking his head gently and worried to death. Sherlock looked up, eyes red and face crinkled, his hair was all over his forehead clumped in a wet mass. He ran an eye over John, assured that this indeedwas _the_ John and quickly lumbered into his arms. He sniffled occasionally in John's shoulder, slowly getting his breath back and wiping his nose on his apron.

John continued talking to him in a soft tone, trying not to scare him more. He swept his hair off and took his face in his hands, planting a wet kiss on Sherlock's nose. He ached to kiss him on the mouth, his entire body revolted against it but he just couldn't. He loved this man, truly loved him but somehow kissing him now seemed improper to John, like he was taking an advantage of his friend.

Sherlock spent the evening in John's arms, his body growing tense randomly as he dug his head in John's chest, escaping something they were both trying to free.

John quickly tucked the _Rambo_ CD out of sight. Enough _moving-on_ for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

_And I could write it down  
__or spread it all around,  
__Get lost and then get found  
__or swallowed in the sea…_

Music crept up on John's lips one evening when they were sitting in the living room, Sherlock watching some telly and John worked on his laptop, thinking if he should start a journal or something similar. "What song is that, John?" asked Sherlock, still looking at the television. "I don't know, I just remember this paragraph. I heard it somewhere, I don't even remember where," John said absently.

"You must have heard it on the radio when you were late last night," Sherlock said, now glancing towards John is a rather familiar manner. It hit John that it was indeed true, he had come late last night and plugged in the radio while he took a shower, he had been so busy and tired that he barely remembered anything.

"How did you know?" John said, trying hard not to sound too hopeful. Sherlock could have just heard him listening to the song in his room. It could be something pretty obvious. _Not too hopeful, _he reminded himself.

"It's simple, really. Whenever you come back late, you have either had a long day at the hospital or you went out with your friends for a drink. Either of the two options leaves you tired and your utter fascination with hygiene coupled with the tiredness makes it impossible for you to sleep without taking a shower. You usually fall asleep in your late showers, so there is always a chance that you'd do something to ensure you stay awake long enough to finish it and reach for your own bed. The radio is the only source of entertainment you have in your room. So, yeah. That's how." Sherlock blushed a little and looked surprised at his own deduction.

John Watson, meanwhile, was having a heart wrenching stab of happiness that made him weep like a teenage girl. He made no attempt to hide his emotions either. Sherlock was improving. _God, he was improving!_

_And I could write it down  
or spread it all around;  
Get lost and then get found  
and you'll come back to me,  
not swallowed in the sea._

Sherlock hummed, now totally engrossed in the telly.  
John looked like he was ready to go to church from next Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had just come back from his psychiatric meeting. He looked rather disheveled, scarf untied on his neck, breathing hard and in short gasps. John looked up, a little worried. Sherlock had made some progress and John let him go to his psychiatrist alone. He anyways didn't like the place, it brought back memories from Afghanistan, the time before Sherlock, the time after Sherlock _fell. _It was a bad place, John firmly believed.

"What happened to you, Sherlock?" John said, trying not to look too worried. Sherlock fidgeted a little, still breathing hard and not replying. He was a little lost and shrugged. "Nothing," he said moodily and sat on the couch, eyes closed and breaths raspy. John looked at him for a while, trying to link things, piecing his ideas together. He didn't want to be too pushy though; he just walked up to Sherlock's couch and sat gingerly on the arm, tousling his hair and getting a sigh of gratitude in reward.

"For how long can your hold your breath, Sherlock? I am sure I can beat you," John suggested with a playful smile as he massaged Sherlock's scalp, trying to take his mind off things. Whatever it was that Sherlock was bothered by could wait. Sherlock looked up and nodded, he was smiling too. "Okay, let's do it! I'll go first," John said and took a deep breath, trying hard not to laugh at the twinkle in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock quickly looked at his watch, keeping count of the seconds. John exhaled after a minute and 6 seconds. Sherlock laughed loudly as John panted, trying to get his breath back. "Oh, you think you can do better, can you? Let's see how you do".

They played for another round and then another till John was winning by a score of 3-0. "You choose games that you are good at, John," Sherlock moaned after being beaten in the 4th round again. He got up, checking the fridge for some truffle cake from last night and bringing a bottle of wine with him. "Let's sit on the terrace. Come, get your coat, we'll have a picnic there," John said, getting up and searching for his coat. The apartment had been so clean, of late, that it was easier to find stuff. Hard as it was to believe, John missed the messier one a lot. At times, he simply threw his clothes on the chair in his room and let them pile on for days till he could take it no more. Any memory of his old life, _any_ reminder at all was enough.

They raced to the terrace, Sherlock beating John this time and looking overtly proud of himself. Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable on the terrace but that could be because he hadn't really been there _ever_. They had been so busy spending time over terraces that hosted criminals that their own beautiful one lay forgotten; they had to clean up a bit before they could finally settle down. Sherlock fidgeted a lot, it was late evening now. He avoided the edge, he was scared of heights, had been so since _the_ _fall_. They sat closer to the door, John holding Sherlock's hand all the while and interlacing his fingers with the long and bony ones.

The bottle was finished in some time and it was getting darker. They got up, deciding that it was better to spend time inside and to save themselves from the cold that was slowly beginning to creep up. John got up, getting the things while Sherlock looked at him. His face was lit in half light, the curls disappearing behind each other like smoke and the eyes, _the eyes…_there was something different about the eyes! It hit John and he felt as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He had to hold the railing for support and he continued looking at Sherlock's eyes, they darted all over the terrace, over everything, deducing. Sherlock saw John looking at him, saw him look at him like he always did, but there was something more. Was it realization?

He grabbed John the same second as John grabbed him, their bodies reacting to a natural force, rhythmic and slow as their hands moved together. Sherlock put his lips on John's and ran a finger down the side of his neck, he then made to explore his mouth with his tongue. They were touching everything of each other that they could reach. John was crying; tears streamed down his face and he kissed Sherlock deeply, moaning and being sloppy.

"How long has it been, Sherlock?" John asked, still kissing any part of Sherlock's face he had missed. "Two weeks, I brought milk for you that day" said Sherlock, running his tongue down John's throat, his fingers trying to undo the shirt. "Welcome back," said John, and there, under the stars and the cold chilly wind, they kissed each other but cried more.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sat on his usual chair, fingers locked and looking at John adoringly, waiting for his next question. In was almost time for dinner but neither of the two people made to move. Sherlock had known that this part would be difficult, he had known it the moment he had felt the last tremors of the shock leave his body as lucidity started to take effect. It was like waking up from an unsettling night of tossing and turning. He knew what had happened, he knew the entire science of it, about a part of his brain going to sleep to block out bad memories; he just hadn't expected to be jolted out of it.

"That day, when I sang the Coldplay song, you had something in your eyes, in the way you cautiously tried to ask questions and looked jubilant when I answered it, it was that day when I realized that there was more to this psychiatrist than you were letting on. So, I talked to our psychiatrist about it but she wouldn't say much. It was also hard for me to concentrate; I always tried to question what was real and what wasn't. It was like being in someone else's body with your own mind."

"So, we talked about it at length. She said that I had made a lot of progress; the very fact that I had deduced that there was something wrong with me was a big improvement in itself but if we wanted quick results, she could recommend shock therapy." Sherlock took a breath, drinking some water and trying to gauge John's reaction. John was listening intently, trying to work things out. His eyebrows were knit together and his mind was working hard.

"So, she gave you the shock therapy? That's it? Why didn't you tell me then?" John sounded a little hurt but he still held Sherlock's hand.

"The first thing I did was to go to Lestrade. Moriarty was dead but his gang wasn't. We had to track them down, all of them. I still couldn't concentrate for long hours and there were times when I would be sitting here with you, watching the television and not knowing how I got here. I wanted to be totally right before I told you…and, erm" Sherlock looked down, a little awkward.

John looked at him questioningly. "I didn't want to miss the look on your face when you realized that I was totally back. How could I? I wasn't even fully recovered myself. I think it was today, after my last therapy session that I was totally _back, _in every sense of the word. I know it sounds juvenile but I really did want to watch your expression. I…am sorry" Sherlock trailed off, looking apologetic.

John rested his forehead on Sherlock's and closed his eyes. He obviously had more questions, they kept growing with every passing second but for now, it was enough for him to know that Sherlock cared. That he was here, that he was back.

"I want to grow old with you," Sherlock said, suddenly opening his eyes and taking the little man's face in his hands. He kissed John, it wasn't overtly romantic, just a small chaste kiss on his lips. John tucked his head under Sherlock's chin, feeling at home after a very long time, feeling protected.

"I assume you want to ask more questions but I am starving. Could we do it later?" Sherlock didn't even wait for the reply and almost dumped John on the couch before getting up.

"Oie, you bring that gorgeous head back here, I wasn't done snuggling!" John huffed, but still followed Sherlock back to kitchen. Sherlock hadn't lost his interest in cooking; he made some Peppered Shrimp Alfredo and jam filled honey cookies.

It was around midnight when he finished and called for John who hadn't been allowed to enter the area all this time because he was being a 'distraction to the art of cooking'. The table was set with a candle and the food looked and smelled delicious.

"You are something of a romantic, Sherlock." John said giggling; he hadn't done something like this for a long time.

"Don't flatter yourself, the bulb fused out and I couldn't find another one. Now eat, I am starving" Sherlock said, trying hard to sound aloof but failing when John giggled again.

"Would you like to get naked after dinner, John?" Sherlock said, resolutely avoiding John's eye and concentrating on his pasta. "For an experiment," Sherlock added.

"In that case, no, thank you for the offer though," John said angrily.

All was well.


End file.
